


Three Strikes

by executrix



Category: Revenge (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were very good reasons for Conrad Grayson to turn on his one-time best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Strikes

If asked, Daniel Grayson would probably translate “Quod Licet Jovi Non Licet Bovi” as “Greek for hair-metal band.” His father, however, was trained in a harder school, and was quite aware that one’s position in life regulates the perceptions of others.

As a rich man, Conrad was expected to subscribe to a box at the opera, and to attend the major performances. He was grateful for this, knowing that in other milieus, a fondness for opera could result in anything from being ridiculed to having one’s face rearranged. Conrad loved everything about opera: the glorious music, the outsized personalities of the divas and divos, the colorful designs and costumes, the unabashed emotion that was so entirely Not Our Kind, Darling. 

And he adored Victoria, the Hamptons’ very own Turandot. As soon as he met her, he yearned to sweep her into a very public adultery that would allow him to dissolve a tiresome first marriage. He longed to marry Victoria and make her the lady of the manor who would bear his scions. Few beneficiaries of patriarchy longed to be patriarchs as much as Conrad did. And that required a suitable marriage, or at least one that was only certain sorts of unsuitable.

Back at Yale, in the seventies, all sorts of radical notions were espoused, including (imagine!) men marrying other men and having children. But such heresies were uttered at the Gay Liberation Front meetings, where Conrad was never to be found, and not in the cruisy john on the third floor of the library, where he could be found, not seldom.

Conrad knew which team he batted for, but, far more crucially, he knew which side his bread was buttered on. 

His uncle Lionel (the one who would have flourished in the more tolerant atmosphere of Europe even if the family trusts hadn’t been drafted to encourage him to remain there) pointed out that one way to avoid gossip about being a little light in one’s hand-sewn crocodile loafers was a reputation as an insatiable womanizer. You could find anything in New York. It was easy to find women who were willing to be richly rewarded for service as arm candy. If few demands were placed on them in the bedroom, it only enhanced their belief in what would constitute an appropriate hourly rate of compensation. The less enjoyable an occupation, the easier it is to convince someone to get paid without actually having to perform.

Another thing Conrad liked about the opera was the queue for standing room, many of whose denizens would do anything for an orchestra seat, not infrequently including **that**. Conrad never bestowed largesse on the same music-lover twice, and rotated the Grayson Global corporate apartments where he took them. Even including dinner and puerile mixed drinks, it was cheaper than an outcall, and it was unlikely that the performances he experienced on- and offstage in a given evening would both be disappointing. 

One tenet of his upbringing that Conrad accepted unhesitatingly was that rich people earned and deserved their wealth because of their personal excellences. For example, trailer trash were impulsive and unable to defer gratification, whereas plutocrats could take the time to sip and savor, not guzzle and gobble. Therefore, when Nolan Ross—a barely-legal blond twink with a billion-dollar idea—first appeared at Grayson Global, Conrad resolved to make the dance of seduction an enjoyably slow one. First he must deprive Nolan of all hope—belittling his invention, tsk-tsking at the thought that anyone, anywhere, would waste money on anything so foolish. Conrad didn’t know if Nolan was actually a virgin, although he thought it was plausible given that no one seemed willing to spend five minutes in his company. When Nolan’s confidence (evidently already frail) was entirely crushed, it would be time for Conrad to rescue him, and benefit by his gratitude.

What Conrad learned from this experience was that some dishes are best eaten cold. But there’s cold and then there’s dried-up, rancid, and moldy, which is why nobody ever had Miss Havisham cater their events. While Conrad was elaborating his plans, David Clarke, probably without knowing or even imagining a thing about them, swept in and ruined them. “Oh, Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth,” Conrad said. The most galling thing was that David Clarke didn’t even demand anything for funding NolCorp other than a simple and even fair contractual arrangement. 

And so, when the Initiative demanded a burnt offering, but didn’t particularly care who ended up on the altar, it took Conrad only minutes to designate David Clarke. Vis a vis Victoria, he could be considered less a cuckolder than a labor-saving device, so this was a venial sin. But spiriting away Nolan Ross before he could be seduced, and his algorithms before they could be made wildly profitable, was unforgiveable.


End file.
